And we're back once more to that annoying wooden, pyramid-like structure from my grade 6 youth. It, of course, plays a role in the next injury I inflicted upon myself (incidentally, and rather surprisingly considering my history: the last real injury I suffered until I got to my grade 12 year of high school (I guess I finally learned after this one). Not that there isn’t a funny story or three (okay, just two) in between involving near misses). This particular self-damage has to go down in the Jamie history books as the most pointless, under appreciated, long-lasting and embarrassing injuries of my life (well, almost. In the process of writing this masterpiece I have once again managed to damage parts of me, but you’ll have to wait on that). You see, this infliction o' pain, unlike many of the others, really doesn't have a cool story to go along with it. It was simply the second stupidest twist of fate (and body) that I’ve ever engaged in.
I was partaking of some alone-time on the same wooden pyramid that had, but mere months before, been the cause of so much personal shoulder-pain to myself. Please bear in mind that I was a social leper at my school and that no one noticed that I was taking some alone time. But of course, with my extraordinary luck, someone decided to include me in some activity or other in some rather unusual display of childish comradery. I was standing upon the ill-omened piece of playground death-trappedness when I heard my name called out by young Geoffrey, one of my classmates. I responded as any normal child would, by turning around to answer. Of course, unlike any normal child, I was bound to suffer injury from this normal activity.
You see, as I turned my unformed body around I had, rather unknowingly, extended the middle finger of my right hand. As I’ve said, after my previous injury on the danger-ridden pyramid the school had added a safety bar at the edge of the structure to provide a handhold for children climbing and falling (and to prevent unfortunate drop offs from the edge) on the triangle of fun. And, as one can guess, my middle finger and said railing had an entirely predictable collision...the result of which was a finger jam. Not a minor, slightly swollen, finger jam that a normal child would receive, but rather a three-week-in-a-brace finger jam. My F-word finger swelled to four times the size of any other digit on my body (including my child-penis) and needed to be supported with a flexi-metal brace for the aforementioned period of time. So I learned to write with my other fingers and, as any child of my age would, I often raised my hand to ask a question (or permission for a bathroom break) while 'pretending' to make a fist - leaving that remarkable digit standing proud and tall.